Chapter 6
Snow drove against the carriage windows with a persistence that mocked endurance.
The lamps set at either side of the box threw wild arcs of light across the trees, catching each gust as it whirled down the avenue.
The road itself was scarcely a road at all—more a path beaten down by the passage of earlier carriages, its verges piled high with drifts.
Twice already that evening the postilions had reined in to scrape a way through, and each delay pressed Darcy’s temper closer to breaking.
Richard sat opposite, shoulders braced comfortably against the swaying of the coach. “There, cousin—see how it brightens? Kelton cannot be far now.”
Darcy did not trouble himself to reply. He stared through the glass, where the storm smothered every shape until the world seemed made of nothing but white and shadow. The heat of the carriage was oppressive, yet he felt the cold as if it had seeped into his very bones.
At last, through the thickening snow, the glow of many windows came into view.
Kelton Manor rose out of the whiteness like some beacon, its long facade bright with candlelight.
The sight of so much warmth, so much welcome, should have eased him.
Instead, he felt the tightening of resistance.
The house promised company, gaiety, obligations.
Exactly what he had not wanted, and what he had been bullied into enduring.
The carriage rolled under the arch of the gate and drew up before a broad flight of steps.
Lanterns swung at either side of the door; evergreen boughs crowned the lintel, a cheerful declaration of Christmastide.
Servants poured out into the storm with shouts of welcome, their breath white in the air, their hands already reaching for cloaks and trunks.
Richard leapt down with soldierly agility, clapping one fellow on the shoulder as though he had been born to cheerfulness.
Darcy followed more slowly, boots sinking into the churned snow, cloak whipping about him in the wind.
He mounted the steps with as much composure as the cold would allow, yet inwardly he longed for nothing so much as the solitude of his library fire.
The door swung wide before them. Heat rushed out, carrying with it the mingled scents of pine, wax, and spiced wine.
The entrance hall was a blaze of light: a great fire roared in the hearth, candles glimmered along the walls, and garlands of holly wound about the balustrade of the stair.
The noise of voices, laughter, and movement rose to meet them as if the house itself rejoiced in its company.
“Fitzwilliam!”
Sir Edward Montford strode forward, his figure broad, his step vigorous, his face flushed from warmth and good living.
He seized Richard’s hand and drew him in with a clap on the shoulder.
“At last! We thought the storm had claimed you. Lady Montford swore you would come, though I told her no man but a fool would attempt it.”
“Then call me a fool, and gladly,” Richard returned, shaking the snow from his cloak. “I could not refuse such a summons. Besides, I brought company—though he required more persuasion than the horses.”
Darcy bowed as Sir Edward turned to him. “Darcy of Pemberley, if I mistake not? It has been some years, but I remember your father well. You are most welcome, sir. Most welcome indeed.”
“I thank you,” Darcy said, inclining his head with the exact civility the moment required. The blaze of fire and candlelight surged about him, all brilliance and bustle, yet it left him curiously unwarmed.
Lady Montford came forward then, slender and elegant in a gown of deep blue, her smile touched with both grace and shrewdness.
She greeted Richard with a kiss to the cheek and Darcy with a curtsy that carried true civility.
“We are delighted you braved the roads. Sir Edward has been restless with anticipation all day.”
“Restless, yes,” her husband agreed. “Like a boy with a toy waiting to be unwrapped. Now come, both of you—shake off the storm. There is fire enough to thaw a regiment, and wine enough to drown it.”
Servants crowded close, tugging at cloaks, fetching boots, gathering trunks. Darcy surrendered his outer garments with perfect courtesy but inward reluctance. The hall, with all its brightness, all its pressing warmth, felt less like a haven than a snare.
They were ushered forward, through a wide arch into a withdrawing room alive with company.
Voices rang out in cheerful confusion, the sound of a violin carried from one corner, and the scent of roasted meat floated in from the dining hall beyond.
The room seemed to swell with faces, each one turning toward the new arrivals.
Richard, unruffled, bent his head first this way, then that, accepting greetings with easy charm. Darcy stood beside him, polite, distant, every gesture precise.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox,” Lady Montford said, presenting a florid, cheerful couple who spoke at once of the treachery of the roads and the excellence of the punch.
“And our daughter, Miss Clara Montford,” she added, drawing forward a young lady of pleasing countenance, her eyes alight as she curtsied to Richard. He bowed in return, and in a moment was engaged in laughing discourse that promised to last the evening.
Darcy shot his cousin a look. At last, he had an answer to Richard’s stubborn insistence upon this journey, with such an inducement waiting for him at the end of it.
“Henry,” Sir Edward called, beckoning a tall young man lounging near the hearth. “My son—he will see to the sporting arrangements. No man in Northamptonshire knows the fox coverts better.” Henry inclined his head, offered a perfunctory hand, and returned to his spaniel at the hearthrug.
Darcy murmured a proper acknowledgment, then found himself facing a widow in a gown of deep plum. “Mrs. Barlow,” Lady Montford said, and the lady dipped her head with a smile sharpened at the edges.
“We are all eager for news of London, sir. A storm may keep us from town, but it cannot still our curiosity.”
Darcy bowed but offered nothing more that a slim courtesy. He knew well enough the kind of curiosity she meant.
The Kendricks were introduced next: a brother and sister from Warwickshire, lately arrived after weathering worse roads than most would have dared.
Mr. Kendrick bowed with an energy that made it seem less a courtesy than an overture of friendship.
“We feared the drifts might pen us in for a week,” he said with a grin, “but my sister insisted that no storm was equal to Lady Montford’s summons. It seems she was right.”
A ripple of amusement stirred the company. Mr. Kendrick was not only genial, but quick of tongue—his words had the lightness of jest without losing their civility. Darcy acknowledged him with a bow but felt already that the man’s openness threatened to overshadow his own restraint.
Miss Kendrick stepped forward, curtsying with such composure that the simple motion became elegance itself.
She was not merely pretty: her features carried the stamp of fashion, the sort of beauty sharpened by style and self-possession.
Her gown, though plain in cut, was chosen with an eye that knew how colour and line might flatter.
When she raised her eyes, they were bright with intelligence.
“I am glad to see you both safe,” she said. “The roads grow worse by the hour. I was certain the coach would tip us into a snowbank before we had gone twenty miles.” She glanced toward Darcy, as if inviting him into the jest. “Were you equally harried on your way from the north, Mr. Darcy?”
All eyes turned his way. Darcy inclined his head. “The roads were difficult, but we managed.”
“Managed,” Mr. Kendrick repeated, laughing. “That is a soldier’s report, Colonel, not a gentleman’s. My sister and I managed, too—but in our case, it meant trading the warmth of our feet for the entertainment of the story.”
More laughter followed. Miss Kendrick’s smile deepened, and she said something low to her brother that drew another ripple from the circle around them.
Darcy stood among them, perfectly courteous, yet with the uneasy sense of being displaced.
The Kendricks, new money though they obviously were, seemed already to command the room with ease.
The brother’s genial wit outpaced Richard’s soldierly humour; the sister’s studied grace set a bar of beauty and intelligence that no one could ignore.
They drew others in as naturally as he repelled them.
Through it all, Richard thrived. His laugh rang out above the company, his stories drew smiles, his manner drew Miss Clara’s gaze as though he were the only man in the room.
Darcy remained where courtesy required him, answering when addressed, but offering little more.
The circle pressed close with warmth and curiosity, yet he felt himself apart from it, an observer obliged to stand among them, rather than one of them.
After a span of greetings and civilities, Lady Montford at last rose from her place. “You must be weary from the road. Pray allow me to have you shown upstairs, that you may change before supper. We shall not keep the table waiting long.”
There was general assent; the company parted with cheerful farewells and promises of more conversation anon.
Richard went off in excellent humour, bowing with flourish to Miss Clara as he promised to claim the next dance should music be called for later in the evening.
Darcy followed a footman from the withdrawing room, his expression composed, though inwardly he felt the press of weariness sharpen rather than ease.
The storm outside had delivered him to warmth and plenty, yet no place seemed further from rest.